Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,8
expression screamed them at me. When I sucked in my cheeks, biting hard, she nudged her clipboard aside and tapped the end of her pen against her chin.
“I’m afraid, Miss Fox, that you are not in a position to make demands. Evidence of your crime has been presented to the Xargi Penitentiary sentencing council, and you’ve been found guilty.”
“When? What evidence?” Trumped-up nonsense, that was what evidence—because it had never happened. Gabriella merely pursed her lips back at me, my questions pinging off her icy exterior, her perfectly smooth and flawless face. She then glanced pointedly down at my body.
“Do you have anything on you? Drugs? Weapons?”
“Excuse me?” Dumbfounded, I too looked down at my clothing, at a torn shirt that clung to my figure and ripped black stockings without pockets. Short in stature when I wasn’t strapped into my heels, I didn’t exactly possess the cleavage to hide anything in either. “I… No?”
“Right.” Gabriella pointed her pen at my throat. “That collar around your neck stunts your power as a witch. You will be unable to practice magic on these grounds.” She sounded bored again, like she had said this exact speech a thousand times before. That didn’t bode well for me. “I’ll take your fingerprints now and a drop of your blood to register you. After a cavity search, you will be issued your uniform. If you attempt to remove the collar, there are consequences.”
Her lips quirked at the last statement, and I swore something sick sparkled in her eyes. The hairs on the back of my neck shot up, goose bumps prickling down my body as my belly looped.
“What kind of… consequences?”
Her eyebrows arched like I was a moron again. “Consequences I promise you don’t want to experience. The last one who tried to test the collar is no longer with us, unfortunately.”
“This isn’t right.” I gripped the chair legs just to ground myself, breath coming harder and faster, Gabriella’s ice swimming through my veins. “It’s a lie. I… I don’t belong here.”
“That’s what everyone says,” she muttered with a dismissive wave. My right cuff suddenly fell off and clattered to the floor, and she snapped at me. “Give me your hand, Miss Fox.”
Numb with panic, I did as I was told. I let her fingerprint me, let her draw a droplet of blood to dribble on one of her many papers. The pitchy whine was back between my ears with a vengeance. Before, when my family had died one right after the other, shock gave me focus. I was able to block out the inconsequential and deal with the important issues. I had been strong—even if I did splinter apart behind closed doors. Here, I… I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t access my magic, my birthright as a witch, as the last of the Fox coven. Couldn’t feel Tully. Couldn’t move any of my limbs unless the aloof witch processing me removed my shackles.
I never made waves. Outside of the café, I steered clear of most people—supernatural and human. No big social gatherings. No sporting events. Just me and Tully and work. That had been my life for five long years, Dad’s paranoia about Lloyd Guthrie dusting off on me.
They thought I was a criminal.
The only link to the criminal underworld I maybe had was…
Lloyd Guthrie. New York mobster. Head of his crime family.
And that was all I even knew about him—all I’d been able to dig up five years ago when, in my grief, I had given some credence to Dad’s warning. Just rumors and tabloid articles and the odd mention on supernatural gossip websites.
Did this have anything to do with him? Had they finally caught the bastard? Would he be my cellmate? Was my family name somehow linked to his organization?
Gods. I closed my eyes tight when the room spun and blurred, holding back tears as best I could, refusing to let the witch across the table see even one spill down my cheek. No. This had nothing to do with Lloyd. I’d never seen or heard from him. Never felt someone lurking in the shadows or breathing down my neck. I distanced myself from the world as a precaution, not because I saw any real reason to do so, but because maybe, just maybe, I felt like I owed it to Dad to be overly cautious, if only to honor a rambling deathbed wish.
And now…
Now Dad’s fears came screeching into focus, bright and shiny and there, and my gut churned harder in response.